‘Everything. She got pregnant and caused a row, and that’s why Louis left. He’d still be here if not for her.’
‘I thought you said he’d let you all down?’
‘He did, but it wasn’t all his fault.’ She shrugs. Her eyes have a far-away look, as though something inside her has switched off. ‘He was good-looking. And fun. He was always teasing Georges, asking him if he was married to one of the sows, things like that.’
‘Sounds hilarious.’
Gretchen takes the comment at face value. ‘He was. There was this one time he took a piglet and dressed it up in his old handkerchief, like a nappy. Georges was furious when he found out, because Louis dropped it and broke its leg. He was going to tell Papa until Mathilde made him promise to say it was an accident. It would only have made Papa angry. And the sanglochons aren’t Georges’s anyway, so he’d no right to make a fuss.’
‘What happened to the piglet?’
‘Georges had to slaughter it. But it was a sucker, so we got a good price.’
The more I hear about this Louis, the less I like him. I can’t imagine Mathilde with someone like that, but as soon as I think it I realize how ridiculous I’m being. It isn’t as if I really know anything about her.
‘So where’s Louis now?’
‘I told you, Mathilde made him go away.’
‘But is he still living in town?’
Gretchen’s face has hardened; she looks every inch her father’s daughter. She throws the last of the dirt down onto the ants. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘I only wondered if Mathilde—’
‘Stop going on about Mathilde! Why are you always asking about her?’
‘I’m not—’
‘Yes you are! Mathilde, Mathilde, Mathilde! I hate her! She spoils everything! She’s jealous of me because she’s old and droopy and she knows men want me more than her!’
I raise my hands, trying to placate her. ‘OK, calm down.’
But Gretchen is far from calm. The skin around her nose has turned white. ‘You want to screw her, don’t you? Or are you fucking her already?’
This is getting out of hand. I climb to my feet.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To work on the house.’
‘To see Mathilde, you mean?’ I don’t bother to respond. I reach down to pick up the plate but she dashes it from my hands. ‘Don’t ignore me! I said
She snatches up the fork and lashes out. I jerk back but the tines snag my arm, tearing the flesh.
‘Jesus…!’
I grab the fork from her and fling it away. A dark trickle of blood runs down my arm as I clamp my hand to the wound. I stare at Gretchen, more shocked than anything. She’s blinking as though she’s just woken up.
‘I’m sorry. I – I didn’t mean to…’
‘Just go.’ My voice is unsteady.
‘I said I’m sorry.’
I don’t trust myself to speak. After a moment Gretchen contritely gathers up the plate and cutlery, her hair hanging like a curtain over her face. Without another word she takes them around to the courtyard and disappears.
I stay where I am, waiting for my heart to slow down. The fork has left four parallel cuts in my bicep. Bloody, but not deep. I press my hand over them again. At my feet, the ants are swarming over the spilled food in an orgy of activity. The ones Gretchen killed have already been forgotten: all that counts is survival.
Leaving them to their feast, I go into the barn to clean my arm.
The sunset is spectacular. The dragonflies, bees and wasps that patrol the lake during the day have been replaced by midges and mosquitoes. Sitting with my back against the chestnut tree, I blow cigarette smoke into the air. I read somewhere that insects don’t like it, but these don’t seem to know that. I’m bitten already, but I won’t really feel them until the morning. Tomorrow can take care of itself.
I’ve brought Mathilde’s book with me. The peace is absolute, but I’ve no stomach for
My arm is sore where the fork tore it, but the cuts are only superficial. I washed them under the tap, letting the frigid water sluice away the blood. It ran in pink trails across the cobbles, draining into the widening crack in the patch of concrete. Another of my predecessor’s legacies. I told Mathilde I’d caught it on the scaffold and asked for cotton wool and sticking plaster. I thought it better to dress it myself than explain how I’d come by equidistant cuts.
No, that’s one conversation I’d rather avoid. Still, if Gretchen had a crush on Louis it would explain some of the tension between her and Mathilde. And maybe it was more than a crush, I think, remembering the crude drawing I found in his notebook. The naked woman could have been either of them, and Louis doesn’t sound the sort of man who’d have qualms about sleeping with both sisters.
